


In the Spirit at Your Elbow

by jjscm



Category: Emmerdale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-28 07:09:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16718722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjscm/pseuds/jjscm
Summary: A Tate Christmas Carol.





	In the Spirit at Your Elbow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MissGeorgieTate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissGeorgieTate/gifts).



> Set at Christmas 2018, but in a different timeline. Joe is alive and living at Home Farm with Graham. He is not with Debbie.

_The curtains of his bed were drawn aside; and Scrooge, starting up into a half-recumbent attitude, found himself face to face with the unearthly visitor who drew them: as close to it as I am now to you, and I am standing in the spirit at your elbow._

_\- Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol_

Joe woke suddenly. He’d fallen asleep early on Christmas Eve. He looked at his phone. It was nearly midnight, not quite Christmas yet.

It soon became clear what had woken him. There were noises coming from downstairs. It sounded like someone was moving furniture around. For a moment he lay still. It could only be Graham or Santa... or an intruder.

He got up and pulled on his dressing gown. He crept quietly down the stairs. “Graham?” he said softly. There was no answer. Maybe it _was_ a burglar.

He followed the noises into the living room. A figure was standing by the mantelpiece, looking at his photographs. Before Joe had time to think about calling the police, the figure turned and Joe’s heart gave a huge lurch as he recognised the woman.

”Mum?” he whispered. The blonde woman smiled shyly, reaching up to his face as she approached him.

”I’ve missed you, Joseph.”

Joe backed up, away from her. “This isn’t real.” He pinched himself but didn’t wake up.

”Joe, it’s OK.”

”Are you a ghost?” he asked stupidly.

Rachel nodded. “The ghost of Christmas past.”

Joe’s eyebrows shot up. “Shouldn’t you be a Muppet or something?”

His mother laughed. Her laughter was like music.

”Why are you here?”

”To show you your past.”

”I know my past.”

”Come with me.” Rachel reached for his arm.

...

_1993_

He was in a hospital. His father was lying in a bed in what was obviously a private room, looking younger than Joe remembered him.

Two people entered the room: Joe recognised Kim and a man he knew from photographs to be his grandfather, Frank Tate.

”I’ve been talking to the doctors,” said Frank gently, sitting at Chris’s bedside, while Kim awkwardly rearranged the flowers in the room. “It’s a bit grim.”

”What is it?” said Chris, although his tone suggested he both already knew and didn’t want to.

”They think you’re probably never going to walk again.”

Chris reacted much like Joe thought he would himself in that position. He cried, smashed a vase of flowers, shouted at Frank and Kim to get out. 

”Stop this now,” Joe said softly to his mother, not wanting to see any more of his father’s distress.

Rachel nodded. “We could always go and see me finding out my brother had been killed in the plane crash.”

”What’s the point in showing me things that happened before I was born?”

”The point is, your father lost the use of his legs when he wasn’t much older than you are. Your uncle died young, so did I. You’re young, you’re healthy. Why are you wasting your life being bitter and miserable?”

”I’m not bitter and miserable.”

”Could’ve fooled me.” Rachel raised an eyebrow sardonically. “But what do I know, I’m only your mother.”

”So you’ve come back just to lecture me?” Joe could feel his temper giving way. “If you’d had better taste in boyfriends I wouldn’t be motherless!”

Rachel frowned, the memory of her own death apparently intruding. She took Joe's arm again. “Let’s see another Christmas.”

...

_2002_

The world around him changed and when Joe opened his eyes he was in the Woolpack. It was obviously Christmas here, full of villagers, decorations everywhere, Shakin’ Stevens playing in the background.

Joe’s eye was caught by a blond-haired boy sitting at one of the tables. His younger self. Chris was at the table too, his wheelchair turned towards Charity, who looked younger, with shorter hair. A heavily pregnant Zoe made her way over to them, smiling as she sat down.

”You remember this Christmas?” Rachel asked.

He nodded, still looking at his father. “Of course. This was my last Christmas with Dad.” Chris and Zoe were deep in conversation while Charity reached out to ruffle the younger Joe’s hair.

”You look like a happy family,” Rachel said wistfully. “I wish I could have been there...”

”We could have had more Christmases like this, you know,” said Joe. “If he hadn’t killed himself to spite Charity. He could have lived for months, years even.”

”Listen, your dad was selfish, but he loved you. We both did.” Joe looked at his mother as she implored. “I’m sorry we both left you.”

Joe shook his head. “Take me back to Home Farm.”

...

He was standing back in the Home Farm living room, as if he’d never left. His mother was gone, but he could hear someone in the kitchen. It sounded like they were pouring a drink. Suspiciously, he moved into the other room, stopping as he came face to face with another blonde, one he was much less happy to see.

”You!”

”Me.” Kim smiled, raising her glass to him. She looked older and harder than she had in the hospital. “The ghost of Christmas present.”

”Don’t you have to be dead to be a ghost?”

”Technically I did die once.” Kim smirked. “Well, I had a funeral.”

”Where’s my mother gone?”

”Sorry, kiddo. It’s all about the present now.” She held out her hand to him. Glaring at her, he reluctantly took it.

They were standing outside the Dingles’ home. It was still in the process of being rebuilt. “What are we doing here?”

”Don’t ask me.” Kim rolled her eyes. “You must want to see it.”

Joe bent down and looked through the window. He could see his brother sitting on the Dingles’ tatty old sofa. Lisa Dingle had just put down the telephone.

”That were our Debbie.” Lisa announced. “They’re keeping Sarah in, probably overnight. Poor girl.”

”Aye, terrible place to spend Christmas Day,” said Zak, shaking his head.

”Can I go and see them?” asked Noah, looking up from his card game with Samson.

”We’ll all go tomorrow, love,” said Lisa. “Stay here and help look after Jack for now.” Her manner was as kindly and motherly as ever. Joe remembered how she had picked him up and wiped his tears after he had come crashing off his bike, all those years ago.

”Dinner’s nearly ready,” called Belle from the tiny kitchen.

”Oh leave it to me love, you shouldn’t be cooking on your birthday.”

The family gathered around for the meal, Zak at the head of the table, surrounded by Lisa, Sam, Lydia, Samson, Belle, Noah and Jack. Joe felt a tug of jealousy seeing the family all together.

”Here’s to family,” said Zak, raising a glass of beer.

”To family,” they all chorused.

”Sickening, isn’t it?” said Kim impassively at Joe’s side. “Please, let’s move on before I actually vomit.”

Joe didn’t want to leave the Dingles, but Kim had already seized his hand and his surroundings were changing.

...

They were in another house, on the same Christmas Day. Dinner hadn’t been served yet. Jimmy King was coming down the stairs.

“I‘ll get the fire going,” he told Nicola, who was arranging Christmas cards. “It’ll soon warm up.”

”Hopefully next year we’ll be able to afford central heating,” said Nicola, scowling at one of the cards.

”Course we will. I’ll find a new job soon. What a year, eh?”

”You can say that again. Joe Tate!” Nicola suddenly erupted, making Joe start. “I could swing for him, and that flaming Jeeves of his!”

”Now, Niko.” Jimmy attempted to pacify his wife. “It’s the season of good will, after all.”

”Tell that to the kids when they ask why Santa didn’t come this year,” said Nicola. Joe looked around. The decorations, the plastic tree and the pile of presents were rather meagre.

”We’ve got each other, that’s what counts.” Jimmy pulled Nicola to him. Joe watched as the couple embraced. “They really love each other,” he said quietly. He guiltily remembered how he had treated Jimmy when he had worked up at Home Farm, getting Graham to give him all the dirty manual jobs.

”Yes.” Kim examined a fingernail. “Well, it’s been fascinating seeing how the other half live, but I must be getting on...” Her voice was already fading.

...

Back in the kitchen of Home Farm, Joe found himself alone again. “Kim?” He heard a noise at his side and spun around, but it wasn’t Kim who greeted him. Instead, a young girl with long black hair stood smiling at him. “Jean?”

”Hi, Joe!” His cousin looked delighted to see him. “I’m the ghost of Christmas—“

”Future. Yeah, yeah, I know.”

”Mum still cries about you, you know,” Jean said reproachfully. “Every Christmas she hopes you’ll call her.”

Joe sighed and held out his hand. “Don’t you have some visions to show me?” Jean nodded and put her hand in his.

He was back in Hotten General, Jean at his side. The hospital looked more modern now, and the bed he was looking at was smaller than Chris’s. It was also empty.

Joe heard a muffled sob and looked around. Debbie was sitting on a chair at the end of the bed. “Is this...” Joe looked at Jean for confirmation. “Where’s Sarah?” But he already knew the answer.

”I’m sorry, Sarah,” Debbie said, barely audible, to herself. “I’m sorry we couldn’t find you a transplant.” A tear ran down her beautiful face. Joe had never seen anyone look so devastated. He went and kneeled down beside her.

”I’m so sorry,” he said, although he knew she couldn’t hear him. He looked up at the decorations that still hung around Sarah’s bed.

Standing up, he wiped his eyes and said abruptly to Jean, “Take me somewhere else. Anywhere but here.” He grabbed her hand without waiting for an answer.

...

When Joe looked around, he was in the village cemetery. He was standing not far from where his father was buried alongside his grandfather, his mother’s grave a few plots away. He could hear carol singers in the distance. “ _God rest ye merry gentlemen..._ ” There was no sign of Jean.

Turning around, he saw a group of people gathered by a nearby plot. He recognised a few of them from the village.

”Hey!” he called, approaching them. “What’s going on?” Nobody acknowledged him.

”Tragic, really,” murmured Faith Dingle, her eyes on the gravestone. “He was no age.”

“The curse of Home Farm strikes again,” observed Eric.

”Good riddance if you ask me,” said Nicola’s voice.

“Bit harsh, love.” Jimmy’s voice.

”After the way he treated you? He’s no loss to the village, no one forced him to drink himself to death.”

Feeling a surge of dread, Joe pushed his way through the villagers. Everyone there seemed to fade away as he reached the grave, and he sunk to his knees as he saw the name inscribed there.

_Graham Foster_

”No. No.” Joe scrubbed frantically at the name with his fingers as if he could erase it. “No, Graham. Not you too. Please.”

He looked around him desperately. “Jean? Where are you?” There was no reply, he was alone. “This can’t be the future! I have to change it!” He slumped against the headstone, his sobs eventually giving way to silent despair.

...

When Joe woke up there were still tears on the side of his face. Daylight was coming through the window. Frantically he sat up, looking around his room. He grabbed his phone at the side of his bed, checking the date. It was Christmas morning.

”Graham?” he called as he ran down the stairs. “Where are you?”

”Morning,” said Graham, who was sipping coffee in the kitchen. “Merry—“ Before he could finish Joe had enveloped him in a tight hug.

”Are you alright?” Graham asked when Joe had disentangled himself.

”I need to call Auntie Zoe.” Joe ran a hand through his hair. “No, I need to go and give Jimmy his job back. First I need to get Sarah a present. No, first I need to get rid of all the booze in the house.”

He ran upstairs to get dressed, leaving Graham very confused.

”He always did get overexcited at Christmas,” he said to himself, shaking his head.


End file.
